


Anywhere but Samarra

by LSDAndKizuki



Category: Original Work
Genre: Appointment in Samarra, Gen, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSDAndKizuki/pseuds/LSDAndKizuki
Summary: No matter what you do, you have one destiny: to be a cliché.





	

The poet’s pen scribbled nervously but determinedly. It was setting an Australian scene, a scene on the coast, centred on a couple afraid of sharks. They refused to go in the water. _We’re safe on land,_ the husband kept saying to his sun-scorched and terrified wife, believing it less each time he said the words. “This one,” the poet said aloud, liking the cadence of his voice against the scraping of his nib. “ _This_ one will be the one, I’m sure of it.” _What’s that?_ The wife asked fearfully, ears fine-tuned to any calls of danger or distress. _I heard something…_

He finished the poem on a low-burning candle, in a Grecian dusk. The windows were open to let the evening air in, but all was static and humid. At the final juddering halt of his pen scratches, the silence seemed to wake up the poet’s partner. He stood up from the couch at the end of the room, and slowly came up from behind the poet. “You done?”

“Yes. Read it, please.”

The poet’s partner’s heart nearly broke at his friend’s arrogance. Barely any preamble, simply a demand.  “Are you sure you want me to?”

“ _Yes,_ ” the poet cried, sounding a little desperate, “Goddammit, read my poem!”

So the partner did, attentively and scrutinising. The couple. The crashing waves. The sharks, never seen, but always known in the hearts of their fearing subjects, and somewhere in the heart of any imaginative reader. A shiver went down the partner’s spine just from the sound of the words in his head, but he knew that none of these emotive responses were any use. The poet had given him his work to read for a particular purpose, to hear a particular piece of praise, but his partner could not on his conscience provide it. “I’m so sorry,” he said, surprising himself with his own weakness of tongue – and spirit, it seemed, as he averted his eyes to avoid the poet’s reaction. “You’ve… You’ve written it again.”

“No.” This was the kind of flat denial that only came into being after slews of disappointment: a barometer to show that some limit had been exceeded. “No, that’s not possible. I deliberately kept it modern here. I gave it a completely different setting. My God, the poem’s _funny!_ I cannot have written that godforsaken fairy story again.”

“I’m afraid you have,” the partner went on mournfully. “Look. The couple fear death, so they stay on land where they think it is safe. They watch out for what they think are sharks in the water, but turn out to be friendly dolphins. And on their ride home they get their brains knocked out by another car. It’s identical.”

As soon as the words “fear death” were used, the poet knew that this was a lost cause. “Appointment in fucking Samarra,” he hissed. The partner nodded, relieved that he did not have to say the words himself. “It’s not fair,” the poet went on. “I really _tried_ this time, to create a story which was _not_ Appointment in Samarra, and all I got was a bitter taste in my mouth, some doggerel I don’t care for, and more Samarra.”

“At least it’s a relatively unused trope,” the partner offered weakly.

“It’s going to be the _death_ of me,” the poet declared. A sparkle appeared in his eye; the partner recognised it as his inspiration. It struck always at this particular point. Whenever _that_ topic was broached: the fear so great and terrible that every man must speak its name, and write endless poems about it. “I say,” he said, marvelling at his genius, “What an idea for a story!”

The partner opened his mouth to say something. He wanted the poet to succeed, and he knew that one more Samarra would indeed be his critical death. But to crush that excited, inspired look in his friend’s eyes was too difficult and heavy a challenge. Instead he smiled encouragingly. “I’m sure you’ll make the best of it.” The poet’s eyes fell back on his sheets of paper, his ink-fat pen, and his eyes took on that fierce and ambitious gleam once more. _Scribble, scribble…_

The partner watched him write, and prepared for another appointment, another disappointment. _It is truly a shame,_ was his final thought on the matter. _He is such a good lyricist. If only he could accept his destiny!_ The hot Mediterranean air agreed with him, as it wafted a shock of chilly breeze to his hairline. He would recount the appointment in Samarra again. And again. And again, in poetry and song and narrative, in a thousand different forms and settings, until the inescapable day that he met it himself.


End file.
